


if the garden runs dry

by Writer25



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Tony Stark, I don't even know yet, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, OR IS IT??, Post-Break Up, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Unrequited Love, no beta we die like men, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer25/pseuds/Writer25
Summary: Tony Stark is a ticking time bomb.It's about time he goes off.-----------------------------Fresh out of a messy breakup with his boyfriend of 3.5 years, Tony spirals, and spirals hard. He returns to alcohol, hard drugs, partying, and soulless hookups to fill the void left by Steve Rogers; formerly the only person left in his life, now just a memory of what used to be.-----------------------------Title from the song >;0 by Mk.gee. Check it out if you like good music.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	if the garden runs dry

**Author's Note:**

> ayyy I'm back
> 
> This is my first Stony fic and it's my first marvel fic on this account. Thanks for checking it out! Check the tags before you read, there's some potentially triggering content in this fic.
> 
> I found this story in my google drive, dated way back to January 2020, and figured it was about time to give it life and post it here for the masses' enjoyment. I don't feel like it's finished, but I also don't know where to go with it. Please let me know what you'd like to see next in the comments, if you want more. 
> 
> Should I give these kids a happy ending? A long road to recovery? A slow, slow burn? An angsty end to a tumultuous story? Absolutely no comfort? Lemme know how you feel. This first chapter may only be a thousand words but I've grown attached to my iteration of Tony and Steve and I'm inspired to take them a bit further. 
> 
> And if you're here from Regret and Regression, fret not!! That fic has NOT been abandoned. I'm not sure how long it'll take but I PROMISE that I'm not done with it yet. You'll get your happy ending someday, I swear, even if it's not done until 2030. The next chapter, at least, will be posted by the end of 2021, and it's already extra long to make up for my absence.
> 
> But we're not here to talk about my other fics! Let me know what you think of this one in the comment box below. The more comments I get, the more likely I am to update sooner. :-)

For a few moments, he’s on top of the world.

Maybe it’s because he’s not sad for once in his fucking life, or maybe it’s cause he finally feels freed from all the guilt and the grief and the bullshit that weighs on his shoulders every day.

But no, right now is absolutely _electric_ , magnetic _,_ vivid, he’s floating above everything and nothing can bring him down, and he understands, again, why they call it a high. It’s freeing, in a way, which is why he craves it so much. Everything fades for a moment; When he’s high, he doesn’t think about Steve Rogers, not even once.

And when it’s over, when he wakes up with his head against the toilet seat and the contents of his stomach spilled across the floor, it’s one of the worst feelings ever. It’s watery, and inordinately lucid, and he feels like he’s sinking into quicksand. His head pounds and his stomach aches and he feels so lonely, so lost, so so cold, that he begins to cry. He sobs and sobs, resting his head on the toilet seat, letting the dull ache of shame wash over him. This is his lowest low, this is rock bottom, this is where it ends.

So he does it again.

The good feelings rush back. His energy replenished, his tired features waken, and he feels confident, happy, sexy, he doesn’t feel like a self-loathing piece of shit anymore.

But it’s not as good.

He looks in the mirror and his eyes still look dead, and he still feels cold, and he can’t tell if it’s physical or emotional.

So he tries something else.

They stack and stack and suddenly he’s on this 3 month bender, going to frat parties, hooking up with hot guys, hooking up with _anyone,_ getting high out of his mind, pounding the pavement with his feet and his head, his blood, bloodletting on white concrete, shooting up with dirty needles, laughing until he spits up red.

_You could die and I wouldn’t even care._

He does it again. More parties, more drugs, living life in the fucking moment and doing whatever he wants. The company’s gutted but Tony doesn’t care, he doesn’t _fucking_ care, he’s on top of the world and he’s doing whatever he wants. He flies to London, he parties more, he gets expelled, and he doesn’t even care.

He overdoses one night, passed out in the alley behind his dorm, and he’s rushed to the hospital, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t stop him. Narcan is just another drug.

_I don’t love you anymore._

This time, it’s not enough. Jesus, his eyes are all red, he weighs 97 pounds, he has no more friends, and the drugs are running out. He’s getting frantic, trying to find another ounce, he can’t even find his fucking lighter, and the world starts spinnning around him. Steve keeps popping up into his mind, the way he smiled, his strong arms, the way he held Tony, how they used to wake up together, how Tony used to feel loved for once in his life. 

4 years sober down the drain, Tony. He fucks everything up, everything, until there’s nothing left.

More heroin. More alcohol. He sees stars, he vomits for the 5th time this week, and he keeps going. He’s hopped up, and he can’t stop thinking about his next move. His next hit.

_I’m sorry._

He takes a breath.

Another.

Another. 

He ends up on the front doorsteps of Steve Rogers, his eyes blood-red and his ratty clothes barely clinging onto his thin frame.

These sparse moments go incredibly slowly. The last couple months have been a blur, and Tony can hardly remember any of it. But this moment is lucid, real, it goes by in real time and Tony can finally catch his breath. 

It’s cold outside, he notes. The winter air nips at his skin, and his breath forms clouds of smoke as he shudders on the steps. Winter, it's winter already? Wasn’t it just June?

The snowflakes fall serenely onto his bare skin, melting upon contact. He’s _dressed_ for summer, that’s for sure; he’s wearing a graphic tee and basketball shorts, both encrusted with various stains and worn with various holes. They smell of metal, Tony notes. They smell of blood. But what doesn’t these days?

He’s been out here for a while now, lost in his thoughts, lost in his mind. _Isn’t he always?_ He doesn’t remember if he’s rung the doorbell or not, but someone opens it anyway.

“Tony, what the fuck?”

There he is, and he’s as beautiful as ever. It must have been a dream, he thinks, because he’d rather die than let this go. He’d rather die, and maybe he did.

“Jesus, you’re like fifty pounds lighter. Are you okay?”

“Oh, no no no, I’m fine. Having the time of my life, living it up. You know how it is.” Tony’s stomach pulses, as he stutters, his voice thick and languid with drug-laced brain synapses.

“I came here to say, umm… I’m sorry, that’s what it was. I’m sorry, Steve Rogers, that I couldn’t be good enough for you. But, you know, I think it was real shitty of you to leave me like you did, though.”

Steve looks a bit regretful.

“My lowest point and you up and left. I was four years sober, you know. Was. That’s over now. I mean, I don’t have anybody but myself to blame. Getting back into that shit is my problem. But you made it so easy."

"Tony-"

"No, it’s fine, it’s fine, really. I'm fine. I’ve been doing fine since then. Living in the moment. Drifting with the wind, place to place."

“Just wanted to tell you, Steve, that that was really shitty. Everyone says you’re, you’re this stand-up guy and you’re so nice, ‘isn’t he just so nice it’s _sickening,_ I want to _vomit_ because of how sweet he is, don’t you, Tony?’ But guess what? My blood is on your hands. Nice people don’t do shit like that. So, so... whatever. That’s all I had to say.”

He throws up in the hedge.

Again, again, again.


End file.
